French’s International Copyrighted (in England, her Colonies, and 
the United States) Edition of the Works of the Best Authors 


No. 299. 

TOMMY 


B Short Character Iplag in One Bet 


, BY 

ETHEL HALE FREEMAN 


Amateurs can play this piece without payment of royalty 

All other rights reserved. 


Copyright, 1915, By SAMUEL FRENCH 


< 

PRICE 25 CENTS 


New York 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30 WEST 38th STREET 


London 

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26 Southampton Street 
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©CI.D 3967 3 

FEB 15 1915 

%o f 


TMP92—009312 


TOMMY 


CHARACTERS. 

(In the order of their appearance.) 

Grannie 

Miss Bumsted (.1 staie - ii'ard visitor ) 
John Snow 
Tommy 
Sidney 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall 
Stiles-IIall 
Mrs. Rocxaway 


3 





Tom mv 

[Stage Plan] 






El — EXIT TO CLOSET 

E2 — DOUBLE SCREEN DOOR LEADING TO WOOD SHED 

E3 — EXIT TO FRONT PORCH 

E4—EXIT, FRONT DOOR 

E5 — EXIT TO TOMMY’S ROOM 

E6— EXIT TO SPARE ROOM 

W —WINDOW, 12 SMALL PANES 

R —BARREL 

S —SINK 

P —PORCH 

S+—STOVE 

T —-TELEPHONE AGAINST WALt} 

4 







TOMMY 




Scene:—Grannie’s kitchen. It is a typical kitchen 
of the old New England- farm-house. On the 
left a large stove fills the place once occupied by 
a fire-place. At the right an oblong table stands 
between two windows. The table is covered 
with white oil-cloth. At one end there are a 
few dishes, etc., covered over with white mos¬ 
quito-netting. Above the table, on the right is 
the sink and a barrel full of water standing be- * 
side it. The rear wall is mainly occupied by 
doors. A large screen-door u. r. and u. r. c. dis¬ 
closes the wood-shed. u. c. the wall is covered 
with pots and pans, a great coat, an old fowling- 
piece and several farmer hats. u. l. c . a short 
entry leads to the front door. There are also 
doors u. l. and d. l., leading respectively to 
Tommy’s room and the spare chamber. A tele¬ 
phone occupies d. r. 

(The scene discovers Grannie near the sink, sprin¬ 
kling clothes. Miss Bumsted sits rocking near 
the stove.) 

Miss Bumsted. Oh, how serene it is here! Like 
walking on land after a sea-voyage—so firm and still. 

I d really like to spend the night and see the child. 

Grannie. Do, now, Miss Bumsted. You’ve come 
such a long ways. And it must be real hard work, 



6 


TOMMY. 


making so many calls in one day. You have to write 
reports on them, I suppose? 

Miss Bumsted. Yes- 

Grannie. Well, now, that’s hard work for hot 
weather. 

Miss Bumsted. But I don’t have to do any brain 
work here, and it’s a real rest to come. I’m sorry not 
to see the child, though—happy and healthy as ever, 
of course? 

Grannie. Never in the house a minute except to 
help with the work. 

Miss Bumsted. I can imagine. Just as active as 
ever ? 

Grannie. (Stopping her work, and pushing back 
her spectacles ) Why, you’d think so, Miss Bum¬ 
sted ! When she isn’t in the garden—it’s the hen 
yard, or she is off with the cow—she’ll stand by the 
hour just scratching its back!—When the work’s 
done, she just lets loose, it’ll be off to the woods, or 
up in the big pasture, or tramping the Lord knows 
where. But she’s fonder of that cow than anything, 
and do you know, she has set her heart on having a 
stock-farm. Talks about it as regular as the rooster 
crows. 

Miss Bumsted. I’m delighted she’s so contented. 
One would think her parents had been country-bred 
people. 

Grannie. I’ve often thought that way, myself. 

Miss Bumsted. Has Tommy ever heard any more 
from those relatives—cousins—weren’t they? Did 
she answer that letter? 

Grannie. No —she said she didn’t know anv 

m7 

relatives, they’d given her over to the State an’ that 
was enough. She just got mad. Tommy can get 
mad, but it’s mighty seldom she lets go. 

Miss Bumsted. Did she keep the letter? 

Grannie. ( Chuckling ) In there. (Points to the 
stove ) She said, “ now they can’t prove I ever got 
it, anyways! ” (Thunder is heard in the distance ) 



TOMMY. 


7 


Miss Bumsted. Oil, oh! What was that? Was 
it blasting or thunder, or shooting? ( They listen ) 
Dear, dear, what luck! Do you think that was 
thunder ? 

Grannie. It sounded some like it, still- 

Miss Bumsted. ( Getting up) I must hurry on, 
but if it should storm you may see me back again, for 
you know how mortally scared I am. Silly as it is, 
I cannot help it. 

Grannie. So you are, there, I remember that 
storm last season when you dropped in, as limp as a 
wet rag one minute and as nervous as a chipmunk 
the next! You poor thing! 

Miss Bumsted. Give me a couple of pillows and 
a closet—that is all I ask. Perhaps w r e won’t get it 
—good-bye, good-bye. (She hastens to front door) 

Grannie. ( Following her to the door) Now you 
just come back if it does rain. 

Miss Bumsted. Thank you, thank you. But I’ll 
try it, it may have been blasting. Good-bye. (Exit 
u. l. c.) 

(Grannie stands in the open door-way, for a mo¬ 
ment, studying the matter.) 


Grannie. It does look kind of black. Poor thing, 
poor thing! ( She returns to the clothes which she 
now places neatly in a large basket) 




’s voice calls outside. 


) 


Grannie, Grannie! 


(John Snow runs in u. l. c.) 

Grannie. Afternoon, John Snow—what’s the 
matter now? 

John Snow. Where’s Tommy? 

Grannie. Well—is that all! I thought the little 
bull’d got away. 



8 


TOMMY. 


John Snow. Oh, no, Granny, I just wanted 
Tommy. 

Grannie. Well there’s nothing new in that, John 
Snow. I guess she’s up finishing the big berry-bush 
—she’d ought to be back by now. You’d better sit 
down an’ keep cool. 

John Snow. All right. But just see what I’ve 
got for her! Look at this. ( He takes a handker¬ 
chief from his pocket and carefully unwraps a pink 
ticket) 

Grannie. Whatis.it? 

John Snow. Tommy’s ticket to the show. She’s 
goin’ to it with me. 

Grannie. The show up to Roekaways’ Place? 
(John Snow nods) How much did you hev to pay? 

John Snow. Fifty cents. Couldn’t you come, 
too, Grannie? 

Grannie. Oh, no, John Snow. I ain’t one to go 
to shows, not to city folks’s places. 

John Snow. But the Roekaways are awful nice 
—I think Sidney is all right—you’d have a fine time. 

Grannie. No, thank you, Johnnie. You can take 
Tommy. I don’t object to her going—but I’ll mind 
the house an’ the animals. One of us would hev to 
stay back. 

John Snow. Look here. Granny, if one of you 
was dead an’ had to be buried, there wouldn’t be 
anyone to stay back an’ mind the house. But I 
suppose I’d hev to be here, then. ( As he pauses, 
gloomily, a peal of thunder is heard) 

Grannie. Goin' to rain, ain’t it? 

John Snow. Guess it is, Grannie. Don’t you 
want some wood? (He runs to the wood-shed and 
returns with an armful which he sets down in the 
hox by the stove) Gee! Won’t Tommy be tickled to 
get wet! Gee! I hope it comes down! 

(A voice outside calls) 

Jessie, Jessie! Here boss, co’ boss, eo’ boss! 


TOMMY. 


9 


(John Snow darts to the door u. l. .c.) 

There she is, there she is! ( Exit ) (Laughing and 

chatting are heard outside—also the moo of a cow) 

(Enter Tommy with John Snow.) 

Tommy. Oh, Grannie! Grannie! Isn’t John a 
daisy? He earned enough from his berries to buy 
me a ticket, and he is going to it with me. 

John Snow. ( Proudly ) Not in a reserved seat, 
Tommy. You have one of those. Mine is just an ad¬ 
mission—Yours is pink and mine is blue—-it says 
“ admission to the Rockaway Woods.” Gee! 

Grannie. I thought your dad wouldn’t let you 
have your berry earnings—ain’t he turned over a new 
leaf, eh? 

John Snow. No —oh no, but this was extra pick¬ 
ing. 

Tommy. He got them after supper and sold them 
to the egg-man. Big as these, weren’t they? ( She 
holds up her pail of blue-berries for the Grannie 
to see) Wasn’t he the boy, Grannie? 

Grannie. Did you, now, did you—John Snow? 
Well, sit down and have supper with us. 

Tommy. Oh yes, Johnnie dear, you must. Pota¬ 
toes and baked beans! Oh, Granny! (She sniffs 
about the stove with satisfaction) My! but I am 
hungry. 

John Snow. No, no. Tommy, I’ve got to beat it, 
or dad’ll be mad. 

Tommy. ( Sweetly) Has he been ugly, again? 
(John Snow nods) Well, here— (She forks a pota- 
toe and holds it out to him—he takes it warily, tries 
to say thanks in spite of the hot mouthful and goes 
out u. l. c. Tommy follows him to the entry) 

Tommy. Coming back after the chores? (John 
Snow calls “ yep ” as he disappears. Tommy goes 
into the wood-shed and calls after him) I’ll beat 
you at milking - 




10 


TOMMY. 


John Snow. ( Outside ) Pooli! I’ll get seven! 

(She returns and takes down the milk-pail ) 

Grannie. What you been up to to-day, Tommy? 
Tommy. Oil nothing. Grannie. 

Grannie. Tommy, you ain’t been round with the 

city folks again, I hope- 

Tommy. Hm! Not many of ’em. 

Grannie. I suppose they don’t have to fool 
’round wastin’ time with a country girl if they don’t 

choose to- 

Tommy. Grannie! 

Grannie. Well? 

Tommy. Do you know what city people say when 

you look that way? They say, I should- 

Grannie. Never mind, Tommy. 

Tommy. Worry—an’ have wrinkles—That is 

their way of putting it- 

Grannie. I don’t know as I care a yellow pump¬ 
kin w r hat they’d say. 

Tommy. Oh, but you know you do, though. An’ 
so do I. (She sings ) 

“ There was a jolly miller 
Lived on the River Dee. 

He laughed and sang from morn ’till night. 

No man so blithe as he-” 

Grannie. Fetch the plates, Tommy. 

Tommy. 

“ And this the burthen of his song 
And ever more shall be, 

‘ I care for nobody, no, not one. 

And nobody cares for me.’ ” 

(Laughs) You think you’re something like that. 
Grannie dear, but you’re not! Why if Sidney Rock- 
away was to come in that door now, you’d run to set 
your cap straight and put on a clean apron an’ 
apologize for the looks o’ the kitchen—that never 







TOMMY. 


11 


looked better !—an’—golly-pops ! there is Mr. Rock- 
away, now, well, well, how killing funny! 

(Sidney, a handsome , well-dressed fellow stands in 
the doorway u. l. c. smiling .) 

Sidney. Good afternoon, ladies. 

Tommy. Come in, Mr. Rockawav! Come and 
have supper with us. 

Grannie. Good afternoon, sir— (To Tommy) Sh ! 
child, there ain’t nothing fit for him to eat! 

Tommy. Oh, but isn’t there? Better potatoes than 
you can buy—new ones—lim ! an’ baked beans,— 
what do you say? 

Sidney. You’re awfully good, but I only stepped 
in for a short call—really, Tommy. We have guests 
now- 

Tommy. Oh, they’ve come for the party? 

Sidney. No —but I think they’ll stay for it. 
Tommy, what do you think? (Grannie goes into 
the pantry — Sidney sits besides the window r. c.) 

Tommy. I don’t know, what? 

Sidney. Of course, mother has heard me speak of 
“ Tommy ” pretty often, this summer. Well, to-day, 
she needed one more boy to act as usher at the party 
and she asked me if I'd like to have my friend 
“ Tommy.” (Tommy looks puzzled) Then I had a 
sudden burst of virtue and I told her you were not a 
boy. 

(Grannie has entered and caught the last speech.) 

Tommy. Didn’t you ever say I was a girl? Why 
didn’t you? 

Sidney. ( Avoiding her look) I don’t—know— 

exactly. But that’s all right. 

Grannie. Eh? 

Sidney. Siie certainly was surprised. 

Grannie. Yes, I presume likely she was ! An’ I 



12 


TOMMY. 


dare say we’ll have a call from her, eh? If she’s at 
all like all the ma’s I’ve ever seen. 

Sidney. ( Shrugging his shoulders ) She didn’t 
ask where you lived. But I haven’t told you about 
Madelin. She and Charles arrived yesterday. You 
know, it’s most interesting, they are actually hunting 
for an heiress ! 

Tommy. What? Not here in- 

Sidney. Yes, they are sure she is somewhere 
about in this neighborhood. You see, Madelin was 
once very poor and when her sister died, leaving a 
child to be brought up, Madelin thought she couldn’t 
afford to look after her and turned her over to the 
state. Personally, I don’t think she’s very keen on 
children. 

Tommy. Does she want to find her, now? Why? 

Sidney. Well, she has suddenly become very pen¬ 
itent, ( The Grannie does not hear any of this con¬ 
versation) and, incidentally, (Of course) something 
very unexpected has happened—a regular newspaper 
story. The child’s father had an uncle who went to 
England and never was heard of. Now, that uncle 
has just died and left a lot of money; and the only 
heir is this poor little girl. What do you think of 
that? 

Tommy. (Who has listened intently) It’s awfully 
interesting but it scares me, somehow. 

Sidney. Oh no, dear Tommy, why should it? 

Tommy. Anyway, that money ought to go to the 
people who brought her up. 

Sidney. Ah, but if her aunt is verjr attractive and 
invites her to live with her- 

Tommy. Please, please don’t! 

Sidney. (Surprised) Why I’m sorry, Tom- 

Grannie. Fetcli the eggs, will you, child? 

Sidney. I must trot off or I’ll get wet. 

Tommy. (Brightly again) You don’t mind that, 
do you? 





TOMMY. 


13 

Sidney. Not a bit! But first let’s get the eggs. 
(They go out together merrily ) 

Grannie. Can’t no good come of it! City folks 
an’ country folks can’t mix an’ there ain’t any use in 
their trying. He’s real nice, too—but ’twouldn’t do 
—not for a minute. {She shakes her head sadly ) 

(Tommy and Sidney return, laughing and chatting .) 

Sidney. Here they are. {He sets a basket on the 
table ) Now, good-bye. Remember to come to the 
party, both of you,—oh, I almost forgot your tickets. 
(He takes a packet of cards from his pocket. A peal 
of thunder is heard ) It is lucky we are not celebrat¬ 
ing to-night. Here are the tickets. 

Tommy. Oh, no, thank you, I have one. 

Sidney. What? 

Tommy. I have mv ticket, and Grannie won’t 
go. 

Sidney. But surely you’re going to let me—why, 
of course I thought you would let me give you your 
tickets and they are the very best seats. Please- 

Tommy. Thank you so very much, Mr. Rockaway, 
but I can’t. 

Sidney. Now, Tommy, that’s too bad of you. 
Please use mine. I’m going to drive down for you, 
too, if I may. 

Tommy. Oh, no, John Snow has my ticket, and 
we don’t need to ride. 

Sidney. Can’t you explain to John that these are 
better seats? He wouldn’t mind. Why he’d be 
proud to have you and your grandmother sitting in 
the very front row. Please, please, Tommy dear. 

(Tommy goes toward windozv d. r. troubled, he fol¬ 
lows.) 

Tommy. No, thank you—But you’re awful kind, 
Mr. Rockaway. 




14 


TOMMY. 


Sidney. For heaven’s sake don’t call me Mr. 
Itockaway and act so formal with me. 

Tommy. I don’t think I’ll call you Sidney, any 
more- 

Sidney. Nonsense, why shouldn’t you? Call me 
Sid, then, see? Now, please change your mind about 
the party—why you don’t know how disappointed I 
am. Please! Won’t you? Good-night. (Exit) 

Grannie and Tommy. Good-night, good-night. 

Grannie. I’m real glad you are so sensible, child. 
(Tommy sits thinking hard, her Grannie comes to her 
side) I guess you know that some stone-walls ain’t 
meant to climb, don’t you? It may look as pleasant 
as a June day on the other side, but velvet lawns an’ 
gravel driveways ain’t for us, child—not for us. ( The 
rain is heard—lightly at first) 

Tommy. No —anyway, it isn’t polite to the Lord 
to change his land so and smooth it out the way you 
make a loaf of cake and cover it over with pebbles as 
though the earth weren’t clean. Our land is so much 
nicer—it’s so full of surprises. (She jumps up and 
goes out with the milk-pail, whistling) 

Grannie. There’s good blood an’ I don’t need to 
be told it! I wonder who her folks was —I wonder. 

( is she stands meditating a knock is heard. It is 
now pouring hard) 

A Man’s Voice. Might I please come in? 

Grannie. (Opening the front door) Good after¬ 
noon, sir- 

T iie M an. May I step in for a moment, madam? 

Grannie. Why certainly—dear me! You’re as 
wet as a turtle and in that short time, too. (He enters 
cautiously, his boots and hat are dripping—his coat 
apparently very wet on the shoulders) 

The Man. Yes, ah—I shouldn’t mind but you see 
—I got off the road and I really don’t know where I 
am—I came up through some deuced high grass and 
—as you see—I am wet! 

Grannie. Well—stop by the stove, sir—there. 





TOMMY. 


15 


make yourself comfortable, sir—that’s right. {He 
gratefully hurries to the warm stove ) You must 
have come up through the mowing—however did you 
get way down there? 

The Man. I don’t know. I was just following 
the brook- 

Grannie. Oil, fishing, eh? Get anything? ( He 
shakes his head ) You’d ought to have waited for the 
rain—that makes ’em bite. 

The Man. No, really? I really don’t see why it 
should- 

Grannie. Makes ’em lively an’ nerves ’em up, 
they say. 

The Man. Ah—but the woods are dreadfully 
damp and chilly in the rain. Your warm stove is far 
more fascinating, I assure you. 

Grannie. Maybe you’d like a cup of tea? 

The Man. Oh, have you really some tea? Oh, 
thank you, thank you so much—You’re so kind. I 
suppose I am miles from the Manor. Could you tell 
me the time? 

Grannie. Nearin’ six. Cream an’ sugar, sir? 

The Man. ( Eagerly ) Thank you—thank ycu. 
Dear me! A dinner-party on—and here I am, miles 
away. Ah—I don’t suppose you have such a thing 
as a telephone? 

Grannie. Right there, sir. Help yourself, sir. 
(With many bows and demonstrations of gratitude he 
goes to it—takes down the receiver and waits. After 
a little his eye alights on the lines printed over the 
telephone. He hangs up the receiver, rings the bell, 
takes down the receiver and continues ) Hello, hello! 
Give me 29 please—yes—. Hello—is this—yes. 
This is Mr. Stiles-Hall. Yes—Will you kindly tell 
the ladies that I am detained—by the storm. They 
must not expect me at dinner—no I am miles away— 
very comfortable, yes, indeed,—no, I can’t tell you 
where I am—all, Madam—can you tell me how far 
we are from the Rockaway Pines? 




i6 


TOMMY. 


Grannie. Third house on the right. 

The Man. Ah—thank you—it’s the third house 
on the right from the Pines—Oh, no—the houses 
are miles apart, you know—Ah—don’t send for me 
right away, please—no I’m too wet to move. Thank 
you—good-bye. ( He puts up the receiver ) Ha! 
Ill just escape the dinner-party. Charlie, my boy, 
this is good luck—Have I really found a spot where 
Madelin’s ferreting eye can’t hit me and where I 
needn’t kill my poor brain with compounding compli¬ 
ments to the homeliest ladies on God’s earth ! 

Grannie. Would you like the paper, sir? 

The Man. Thank you, madam. By thunder, she 
is fit for the White House—compared with them. (A 
lady’s voice is heard outside, accompanied by 
Tommy’s) Good Lord! It can’t be! This time I 
refuse to be brought to account. ( He looks about 
and then darts into the wood-shed just as the lady 
and Tommy enter ) 

Tommy. No, you needn’t see anyone, we live very 
quietly. ( The lady’s face is hidden by the damp 
handkerchief which she continually holds before it — 
as if in great pain ) 

Lady. You’re an angel. I couldn’t go to the 
house, this way, 1 simply couldn’t—and there’s a 
dinner-party- 

Tommy. Why, you’re the lady I met yesterday, 
up the road. 

Lady. ( Moaning ) There! You didn’t recognize 
me. I don’t wonder ! 

Grannie. Why, your face is bad, isn’t it? 

Lady. I know it looks awful and it feels a million 
times worse—oh, Lord, oh, Lord ! 

Tommy. Grannie will fix you-^-Don’t cry. 

Grannie. Yes, she’s poisoned, sure enough— 
Too bad, too bad! I’ll fi* a poultice right away. 

Tommy. Didn’t I tell you to keep on the road— 
straight ? 

Lady. Yes—but I saw a terrible bull coming to- 




TOMMY. 


1 7 


ward me and I knew how bloodthirsty bulls are—so 
I got over the wall. I landed in an awful place and 

then I got caught in the bushes and- 

Tommy. Jinks! It must have been the big 
thicket. That’s full of poison ivy. (Grannie now 
wraps a poultice over her cheeks and under her chin) 
Lady. Didn’t hurt any last night; it came on to¬ 
day when I was walking in the sun. Oh, dear— 
they’d never get over what a fright I look—up at the 
house—I simply can’t go back. Can’t I stay here 
over night? I’ll pay whatever you like. 

Tommy. Why you can have my room. Come right 
in. (Tommy takes her off u. l. Mr. Stiles-Hall 
comes out cautiously — Tommy returns—meets him ) 
Mr. Stiles-Hall. Ah—good afternoon—your 

grand-mother kindly told me—- 

Tommy. My, but you’re soaking! Why don’t you 
take your shoes off? Put them in back of the stove. 
Goodness! You’d better get off that coat or you’ll 
get a cough. Been fishing? 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Yes—ah—I—( He takes off 
his boots with some embarrassment. Tommy quickly 
puis them near the stove and takes down the great¬ 
coat that hangs on the wall ) 

Tommy. Put this on. (She helps him off with his 
coat, which sticks, holds the great-coat for him and 
hangs the other over a chair ) Now—no one would 
know you. Sit down and get dry. (He sits in the 
rocker ) 

(Grannie enters with a cup and saucer into which 

she pours tea.) 

Grannie. Here, child, take this in to the lady— 
(Tommy carries it to door—knocks and exit u. l. 
Mr. Stiles-Hall is noxu beginning to doze in the 
rocker—the newspaper has fallen so as to hide his 
face. Enter Tommy) 

Tommy. I’ll do it for you. Did you say 29? 





i8 


TOMMY. 


(Crosses to the telephone and calls up 29) Here, they 
are. (Mrs. Stiles-Hall in a long wrapper of 
Tommy’s, her head swathed in the white poultice, 
crosses to the telephone ) 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Hello! Is this the Roekaway 
Pines? Yes—please. Hello, Emma? Emma, I 
simply can't come home—no—It isn’t the rain, don’t 
send for me—no, I don’t feel well—no, not at all— 
no—I don’t want to be moved—no, I’m in a nice, 
warm farm-house. I think they’ll let me stay a few 
days, ( Lowering her voice ) then I can find out things 
—you understand? I say, I may discover where the 
child is. 

Tommy. It must be the lady Sidney was telling 
about! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Lowering her voice still 
more ) No—just a girl and her grandmother. What? 
No, I haven’t heard of any Tommy, no—Has Charles 
come back? Well I guess lie’s nice and wet, serves 
him right! Now don’t worry in the least about me. 
Good-bye. I’ll call you up to-morrow. Good-bye. 
(As she finishes a loud clap of thunder is heard and 
Miss Bumsted rushes into the middle of the room) 

Miss Bumsted. Oil, oh ! did you hear that crack! 
Oh, wasn’t that terrible. Where’s your closet—Ex¬ 
cuse me, ma’am. (Mrs. Stiles-Hall moves with 
dignity to another rocker beside the window where 
Grannie places a pillow for hei —) 

Grannie. Well, Miss Bumsted, I thought you’d 
be back, go right in there, if you’d be happier an’ I’ll 
fetch the pillows. 

Miss Bumsted. Oh, thank you, I know it’s just 
ridiculous, but I can’t help it, I simply cannot. Ah, 
this is heavenly! (She retreats to the closet d. r. 
Grannie brings two pillows from the bed-room , d. l. 
Tommy dances up and down clapping her hands ) 

Tommy. Grannie, we’ve got a hospital—isn’t it 
fun! No—Let’s pretend they’re been shipwrecked 
on the front gate. (Miss Bumsted shut her door 



TOMMY. 


T9 


tight) Let’s dish the supper and feed them all— 
say, Grannie, ( Whispers ) she’s’the lady up at Rock- 
away’s that’s looking for- 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Here, child, tell me what your 
name is. ( Something in her tone affects Tommy un¬ 
pleasantly) Won’t you tell me, my dear? 

Tommy. ( Evading her ) Have some nice hot 
beans? and potato? ( She brings a tray with several 
steaming, dishes ) Now for the fisherman—no, I 
won’t disturb him. Grandad’s coat needs a good many 
stitches. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Glancing ,toward Mr. 
Stiles-Hall) Oh, is that your grand-father? 
(Tommy does not hear correctly ) 

Tommy. Yes—the poor man was so wet, I took it 
down for him. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Turning to Grannie) Ah— 
you don’t know of any state children about here, I 
suppose ? 

Grannie. Why, the town was full of them at one 
time. They were in every other house for a spell. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Is that so? Did you ever 
take any? (Tommy looks at her quickly ) 

Tommy. Grannie tried it once, but that was all 
we wanted, wasn’t it Grannie? (She holds up her 
hands and shakes her head, significantly) She was a 
ease! Sooner or later they get back to the city, don’t 
they, Grannie? 

Grannie. Yes, they’re uncertain—like lima- 
beans. They may come up all right or you may never 
hear from them again. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. I wonder if you ever knew of 

one named- (The thunder has appeared to stop. 

In the lull Miss Bumsted has opened her door to 
get a little fresh air. She catches the last part of 
the conversation ) 

Tommy. (With a sudden intense impulse ) Oh, 
we don’t know any of them! We don’t have anything 
to do with them—we- 





20 


TOMMY. 


Grannie. Child! (Grannie stands d. r. Miss 
Bumsted whispers to her and they confer quietly 
hut are overheard, by Mr. Stiles-Hall who has 
awakened, hut still takes refuge behind his paper) 

Miss Bumsted. Who is that woman? 

Grannie. Just a stranger—she got ivy-poisoned 
and wanted to stay here till she got better. 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. ( Chuckling ) If Madelin 

isn’t a guy! 

Miss Bumsted. Don’t you let on. I know that 
type. A woman just like her came into the state- 
house just last week and- 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Eating with relish) De¬ 
licious potatoes, my dear, simply delicious- 

Miss Bumsted. She’s so wrapped up I d never 
know her, anyway, but she might, for all we know— 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. What did you' say your 
grand-daughter’s name was? 

Miss Bumsted. (Mrs. Stiles-Hall is now 
aroused) Don’t you tell her! She’s as curious as a 
cow! 

Grannie. Now that’s funny, but I don’t recollect 
your askin’, ma’am. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Laughs nervously) Oh, 
didn’t I? (A pause) 

Tommy. Oh, Miss Bumsted, have some supper, 
and you, sir? (She brings the tray to each —) Get a 
little nap? (An auto horn sounds without — some¬ 
one knocks—at the same moment there is a terrific 
peal of thunder, Miss Bumsted screams and a 
strange lady enters unceremoniously. She is tall, 
dark, handsome, finely dressed) 

Mrs. Rockaway. Excuse me, young lady, that 
terrific clap made me forget what I was doing. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Emma! How terrible, she’ll 
see me ! 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. The deuce! They’ll catch me! 

Miss Bumsted. Mrs. Rockaway! What will she 
think of me! 




TOMMY. 


21 


Grannie. Come in, ma’am, I’m sure. 

Mrs. Rockaway. I think this must be the house I 
am looking for. Is Mr. Stiles-Hall here? 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. What! What does she mean? 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Lord! (He edges off toward 
the door d. l.) 

Mrs. Rockaway. I was told the third house on 
the right - 

Grannie. A strange gentleman did come, ma’am, 
he—why, where is he, child ? 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Oh! (She sees her husband 
disappear r. l. and starts to speak bat checks herself, 
fearing to be discovered ) 

Miss Bumsted. (Aside) Stiles-Hall, that was the 
name! That was it! (Tommy looks at Mrs. Rock¬ 
away with interest, as though thinking, “ Sidney’s 
mother ”) 

Tommy. He went in there. How funny! (She 
goes out d. l.) 

Mrs. Rockaway. Oh, then, this is the house— 
Why, Miss Bumsted, is it you? How very fortunate. 
You are the very person we wish to consult. My 
friends are in search of a child named Virginia Red¬ 
ding. Have you placed anyone of that name, near 
here? (Grannie and Miss Bumsted look at each 
other in dismay) 

(Tommy has returned with Mr. Stiles-Hall in the 

doorway.) 

Miss Bumsted. I—I think I do know something 
of the child, Mrs. Rockaway. 

Mrs. Rockaway. That’s good—And how can I 
find her? (Tommy starts —) Ah, Charles—well, you 
do look the runaway ! 

Miss Bumsted. (Aside to Mrs. Rockaway) 
But I am quite sure that the child will not leave her 
home. She is very satisfactorily placed. If you 
have any errand to her—I will- 




22 


TOMMY. 


Mrs. Rockaway. Oh, no. Miss Bumsted, it must 
go farther than that. For very pressing reasons, we 
must see and interview the child- 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Yes—ah—I shall offer myself 
as her guardian. 

Grannie. ( Indignantly ) He! He don’t even 
know how to fish! I guess she could be a better 
guardian for him ! 

Mrs. Rockaway. Madam, are you connected with 
this child? (A pause) 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Ladies, excuse me, if I have 
trespassed on the laws of hospitality—but, very 
much against my will I overheard this good woman 
deliver, in very plain language, advice to this other 
good woman not to allow my wife—and her embar¬ 
rassing questions to remain in this house- 

Mrs. Rockaway. Your wife! 

Miss Bumsted. What? 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Madelin, you may as well 
display yourself — though I’ll hold an umbrella in 
front of you if you prefer. 

Mrs. Rockaway. What ? What are you saying! 
(Madelin bursts into hysterical sobs. Mrs. Rock¬ 
away goes to her in astonishment) Madelin! Is 
it really? What has happened to you, my child? 
Dear me, if it should be small pox ! What made you 
come here? That is why you wouldn’t come up to 
the house. Heavens, you are a fright. (Madelin 
wails again —Mrs. Rockaw ay tries to comfort her but 
keeps cautiously as far from her as her demonstra¬ 
tions will allow) 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. My dear,—your complexion 
may be of vast importance but 1 think that the dis¬ 
covery of the heiress may claim some attention. 

Madelin. What? Then I wish you’d discover 
her. 

Mr. Sti les-Hall. Are your eves too tired to 
glance in this direction? I believe, my love, that Vir¬ 
ginia Redding stands before you. ( All exclaim) 




TOMMY. 


23 


Mr. Stiles-PIall. ( To the Grannie) Although 
so poor a fisherman—madam—I think I have landed 
our niece ,—rather well. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Hushing to Tommy) Vir¬ 
ginia! Oh, my darling Virginia! I’ve looked for 
you everywhere—everywhere ! 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. (To himself) Yes, in Aus¬ 
tralia the past ten years! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. I’ve written to you—I’ve been 
to the state-house- 

Miss Bumsted. I knew it. The very same, and 
a cat! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. I’ve been so worried and ill, 
fearing something might have happened to you- 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. (Aside) To her fortune! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. And now at last, Providence 
—the very hand of Providence has restored you to us, 
my darling—my dearest- 

Tommy. Excuse me. If I was ever called Vir¬ 
ginia Redding, I’m not now. She was given away, I 
belong to my grandmother. 

Mr. Sti les-Hall. Excuse me my dear. She is 
not your grandmother. My wife’s mother- 

Tommy. What! You even dare to say that, too? 
You come in dripping wet to wear our clothes and 
warm yourselves at our stove only to act like detec¬ 
tives and snobs and even to insult us by trying soft- 
soap ! You know us well—you city folks! May be 
you think we don’t see through every kind of a coat 
you put on— (Mr. Stiles-Hall shudders uncomfort¬ 
ably) or behind the fashions that you’re all bandaged 
in, (Mrs. Stiles-Hall quivers with rage) don’t 
you know that we are alive as well as you? I dare 
say—through your fine opera-glasses we may look as 
dull as toads—with as little intelligence or feeling— 
but—let me ask you, how long do you think I would 
have stood your insolent questions—or rude remarks 
—or scornful looks—if I hadn’t been given what 
you must have mislaid, somewhere, in your large 







24 


TOMMY. 


manor-house, a thing called good manners, by the 
person who—you now say—is no grandmother of 
mine? I’m forgetting my manners now, I know, but 
I won’t stand for what you’re doing. For shame to 
speak so—and right before her—the loveliest old 
lady—oh, grannie ! ( She runs to her, sobbing) 

Mr. Stiles-IIall. My dear, my dear, we under¬ 
stand how kind- 

Tommy. Grannie, you didn’t think I’d care how 
many aunts and uncles chased me up—you didn’t 
think I’d care a row of pins for anyone that would 
try to take me from you ! 

Grannie. There, there, child—you mustn’t take 
on-:- 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Your uncle’s fortune could 
scarcely be called a row of pins, five hundred thou— 
Tommy. I don’t care! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. But it isn’t the money, we 

are thinking of, it is you, dearest Virginia- 

Tommy. I’m not Virginia—I tell you— (A loud 
whistle is heard outside—a voice calls “ Tommy, 
Tommy! ” and John Snow runs in) 

John Snow. Tommy, the lightning struck the 
big cider-mill! It’s burning like a good one. 

Mrs. Rockaway. Tommy! 

John Snow. Gee! I didn’t see all the swells— 
thunder! (He dodges behind the stove) 

Mrs. Rockaway. Tommy! Is it really? Are 
you, child? the very child I have been looking for, 
as well? My dear, now’’ I not only urge you for vour 

owm sake, but also for my son’s, for Sidney- 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. What! is this really Sidney’s 
Tommy? Well, this is a miracle! 

Mrs. Rockaway. My dear, you need time to think 
the matter over—upon reflection. I am sure that 
your new advantages will appeal to your calmer 
judgment. Any friend of my son, would, I trust, 
w r el come every opportunity for edut ation and culture. 







TOMMY. 


25 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Come, Emma, there is no point 
in all this coaxing, it is plainly her duty to come. 

Miss Bumsted. You are misinformed upon that 
point, Mr. Stiles-Hall, the child will have a free 
choice. When you recollect that for fourteen years 
your relationship to your niece has been completely 
ignored, you may hardly expect that she will receive 
you kindly. 

Mrs. Rockaway. Come—let us not press her 
further, now—we have disturbed this good ^oman 
long enough. My dear, I hope you will not treat 
Sidney as you have your aunt. You must know that 
he is deeply in love with you; and after giving- him 
encouragement for two months- 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Yes, darling, it is for Sid¬ 
ney’s sake that we- 

Tommy. ( Flashing ) Two minutes ago you didn’t 
know I had even seen Sidney Rockaway! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Come, come, dear, we guessed, 
we guessed. 

Mrs. Rockaway. I assure you, my dear, that he 
will have my approval and since you have showed 
him so plainly that you care for him—Come, my 
dear Madelin, I think it is settled quite properly, 
quite properly. 

Tommy. You won’t even believe that I know my 
own mind? I’m sorry to have to speak out straight, 
but, ma’am, we learn that in the country. Mrs. Mad¬ 
elin, if I was dragged off by you, I’d run back here 
the first chance I got and —(To Mrs. Rockaway) I’m 
sorry if your son has thought things I never meant— 
for they never entered my head—but now that you 
talk about it, that way, I don’t mind telling you that 
I never can marry him for as soon as I grow up I’m 
going to marry John Snow. 

All. What? What? (Exclamations) Humph! 
Jove! etc. (John Snow comes out, beaming, from 
behind the stove ) 




26 


TOMMY. 


John Snow. Good! Hurrah ! Oh, I’m so glad 
Tommy, how did you ever think of it? 

Mrs. Rockaway. Well, upon my word! 

John Snow. I never thought of it, but I’ll agree 
with Tommy, whatever she says ! 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Good Lord. ( The auto liorn 
sounds again ) 

Sidney’s Voice. Grannie, grannie, can I come in? 
{Enter Sidney) All, I thought you would all be 
here. Mother, I am glad to see you calling here— 
{To her ) Isn’t Tommy what I told you? Well, 
Charles, Madelin, I have news for you. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. What? 

Sidney. Yes—prepare—my children—as for an 
ice-cold plunge, or a giant fire cracker beneath your 
nose! Prepare, I say for the crumbling of your 
fairy castle—the crashing of your towering expecta¬ 
tions—the heiress is- 

Mr. and Mrs. Stiles-Hall. ( Breathless ) What? 
Quick, tell! 

Sidney. It’s not Virginia Redding, at all, but an 
excellent young woman named Clordina Upham who 
was last Monday married to a blacksmith. {He 
leaves a paper at them ) 

All. Oh! (Mrs. Stiles-Hall wilts, her hus¬ 
band coughs ) 

Sidney. Come, mother, the dinner-party is wait¬ 
ing. Good-night, Tommy, I've been thinking it over 
about the party, and I guess you’re right. You 
promised John first. 

Mrs. Stiles-Hall. Oh, dear ! That dinner-party, 
I cant go! 

Mrs. Rockaway. Nonsense, you can—good-night, 
Madam; good-night, Miss Tommy, we hope you will 
both come to the party. Master John, I congratu¬ 
late you. Miss Bumsted, {To Miss Bumsted who 
has been preparing to resume her travels ) step into 
the car and we’ll drop you wherever you say. Come, 
Charles. 




TOMMY. 


V 

(Mr. Stiles-Hall takes off the long coat and puts 

on his shoes.) 

Tommy. ( Taking the coat) I’m sorry, now, that 
I was rude. 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Eh? Oh, don’t mention it. 
Sidney. What lias been going on? 

Mr. Stiles-Hall. Never mind. I may he a fool 
but I never made love to a girl all summer without 
knowing her name! 

Sidney. I do know her name. It’s Tommy! 

(They go out.) 

Tommy. How much did you get at milking, 
Johnnie ? 

John Snow. Six and a half. good. 

Tommy. I got seven ! 

(They sit dozen and Tommy finishes her supper 
while Grannie starts to wash the dishes.) 


Johnnie. Are you really going to marry me. 
Tommy ? 

Tommy. Yes, when were perfectly old. (He 
looks at her thoughtfully) 

John Snow. I’m glad we re not old now —aren’t 
you? (Tommy nods and they sip their supper) 


CURTAIN. 



HER LORD AND MASTER. 

A Comedy in Three Acts, by Martha Morton. Six males, five females. 
Costumes modern. One interior and one exterior scene. Plays a full 
evening'. 

Miss Morton has furnished the stage with some very entertaining 
comedies, and this is one of her best. The plot concerns the marriage 
of an American girl to an English Viscount. In the original produc¬ 
tion Miss Effie Shannon played the girl and Mr. Herbert Kelcey played 
the Viscount. Price, 50 cents. 

A BACHELOR’S ROMANCE. 

A Comedy in Four Acts, by Martha Morton. Seven males, four 
females. Costumes modern. Three interior scenes. Plays a full 
evening. 

This is the celebrated comedy produced by Mr. Sol Smith Russell for 
so many years with great success. Mr. Russell played the partof David 
Holmes, a quaint, odd character. He is a bachelor, country editor and 
literary critic, so absorbed in his work that the outside world has little 
interest for him. In fact, he has even overlooked the circumstance 
that his ward, Sylvia, who lives with a maiden aunt, has outgrown 
childhood, and he still sends her dolls and other toys as presents. 

When, however, this oversight is made clear to him by the arrival of 
the young woman herself a change comes over his life. The critical 
sanctum grows too narrow for him and his Interest in her leads him out 
into the world. And now the man who has lived in a world of the mind 
learns that there is a world of the heart, for he comes to regard his 
charming ward with feelings more tender than those of fatherly inter¬ 
est. Hut his sense of honor forbids him to disclose these. Nor does he 
imagine for a moment that she, charming girl, could become interested 
in him, a crusty old bachelor. At last, however, an attempt on his 
part to arrange a suitable marriage for her leads to the disclosure that 
she loves him. Miss Annie Russell played Sylvia in the original New 
York production. Price, 50 cents. 

NIOBE. 

A Fantastic Comedy in Three Acts. Five males, seven females. The 
comedy by Harry and Edward Paulton is peculiarly suited to the use 
of schools and colleges, containing as it does much humor, only fully 
appreciated by those in the course of their classical studies. The play 
bristles with allusions mythological and historical, which only serve to 
set oil the excessive modernity of the work as a whole. 

The story concerns itself with the revivification of the statue of Niobe. 
who was turned into stone by Phoebus and Artemis, who wearied of her 
incessant tears for her lost childien. The statue is in the keeping of 
Peter Amos Dunn, an insurance broker, and comes to life while his 
family are at the theatre seeing Pygmalion and Galatea. 

Hopeless of convincing his wife of the truth of the story of the statue’s 
animation, he introduces Niobe as the new governess they are expect¬ 
ing and the situation thus setup is the beginning of many perplexities 
and endless laughter. Niobe is what is known as a sure-fire laugh pro¬ 
ducer and contains many good almost self-acting parts—that of Niobe 
being especially effective with its combination of queenly majesty and 
naivete in the midst of her modern surroundings. Price, 50 cents. 

THE SUPERIOR MISS PELLENDER. 

An original comedy in three acts, by Sidney Bowkett. 2 males. 4 
females. Costumes modern. 1 exterior, 1 interior scene. Time, 2 
hours. 

A gentle, amiable widow-mother is Mrs. Pellender. Each member of 
her family is strongly characteristic. Edith, a rnalade imaginative; 
Nancy, a tom-boy; Noel, a mischievous youth; and the superior Miss 
Pellender. as crisp as a biscuit, sharp as a knife, and the terror of the 
family. The mother falls in love with a diffident gentleman named 
Tister. but to break the news to her unsparing child she feels the great¬ 
est reluctance. She and her fiance are quite unable to muster sufficient 
courage to “confess,” and, in ultimate desperation, they elope, leaving 
a note behind explaining. , . . 

This is a clever, high-class comedy, particularly suited to production 
by girls’ schools and colleges, and it should prove a great success wher¬ 
ever produced, It was originally produced at The Playhouse, London, 
with Mr. Cyril Maude in the role of Mr. Tister. Price, 50 cents. 


These plays are subject to royalty when produced. 
Our 124 Page Catalogue Sent Free on Application. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

II 

JUST PUBLIS 

0 016 103 339 A 

“STRONGHiiAKl | 

WILLIAM C. de MILLE’S GREAT AMERICAN COMEDY DRAMA 

■ffn tfour Bets 


The story of “ STRONGHEART. ” is that of an Indian, named Strong- 
heart; the son of a chief, who lias been sent by his tribe to Carlysle, and 
then to Columbia, that he may return and imparl the wisdom of the East 
Strongheart takes a thorough course in football, and when he arrives at 
Columbia he is a crack halfback of the Moruingside team. 

The first act is laid in the rooms of Frank Nelson and Dick Livingston, 
also members of the team, Thorne, of the team, is jealous of Livingston 
In order to plunge the latter into debt, he has wagered with him $3000 on 
the result of the approaching contest, and then plots to lose the game for 
his own eleven, by sending a list of signals to tae rival team. 

Act II is played in the teams’ dressing room. Between halves the treach¬ 
ery is discovered. Strongheart is placed under suspicion and dismissed 
from his team. 

Victory follows, nevertheless, and the curtain falls on a scene of rejoicing 

The next two acts are devoted more to the love interest in the play 
Strongheart declares his love for Dorothy Nelson, the captain’s sister, and 
learns that while she loves him in return, the prejudice of her family and 
friends give emphatic objections to the marriage. 

Thorne is exposed as the traitor who divulged the signals and just a;- 
Dorothy and Strongheart have decided to marry despite family prejudices 
a member of his tribe enters and announces the death of the young manV 
father. 

Black Eagle, the messenger, demands that Strongheart return, assume 
the honor of chiof, and discharge his debt to the tribe for the education 
they have given him. 

Wavering between love and duty, Strongheart finally promises to throw 
aside his love and return to his people. 


CRITICISMS 

HERALD-NEW YORK. 

" Strongheart” is a good, strong American play. 

PRESS—NEW YORK. 

Than “ Strongheart” no more satisfying Entertainment has been 
vouchsafed to us so far this year. 

EVENING SUN-NEW YORK. 

” Strongheart ” has dramatic qualities which are startling and 
true. 

LIFE—NEW YORK. 

There is a delightful atmosphere about ‘‘Strongheart.” 
HERALD-BOSTON. MASS. 

" Strongheart ” is one of the greatest American plays ever written 

‘‘Strongheart” was played for three seasons by Robert Edeson, and fo/ 
one season each by Ralph Stuart and Edgar Selwyn. The fact that 
almost all the characters are college boys and girls, makes the pre¬ 
vailing spirit of the play one of youth, and renders it particularly 
suitable totlie needs of Amateur Dramatic Clubs and Organizations 

The Cast it* 17 mules and 5 females. Plays a full evening. 


PRICE 50 CENTS. 


This play is subject to royalty when produced 






























